by Julia Kelly
He would be in attendance that evening, along with some of Warwickshire, Gloucestershire, and Oxfordshire’s finest families. At dinner the night before the ball, I met three couples—all prominent men of industry and their wives—who had come down from London, necessitating three trips to collect them from the station. This morning, when I went to the village bookseller’s, I’d heard several women chatting excitedly about what they would wear.
As I approached the house, I gave one last tug to my sleeve and adjusted the white gloves that stretched up my arms before stepping through the French doors off the veranda. Mrs. Creasley was occupied helping a group of four guests with their wraps and hats, so I left my shawl on a sideboard and slipped in unnoticed. My invisibility was not to last, however. A mere three steps into the drawing room, Mrs. Melcourt rushed forward, her hands outstretched.
“My dear Miss Smith,” she said, all smiles and light, “you are just the woman I wanted to see. Lady Kinner, may I introduce Miss Smith?”
I curtsied and looked to the other woman, hoping for some prompt that would help me understand why Mrs. Melcourt had dropped her usually frosty manner. Lady Kinner was clearly a woman of distinction. She bore herself as though graciousness and good manners were as fundamental to her being as blood and bone. She wore her carefully styled silver hair in a cloud of curls, and her dress was an understated mauve covered in a black net overlay. Despite her diminutive height, her eyes shone with an uncommon intelligence. I liked her immediately.
“Miss Smith, when Mrs. Melcourt told me that you were the woman Mr. Melcourt had selected to transform Highbury House’s gardens, I was delighted. My dear friend Mrs. Bartholomew has not stopped singing your praises about the magic you performed on Avenlane,” said Lady Kinner.
I gave a little laugh. “Thank you, Lady Kinner. I appreciate Mrs. Bartholomew’s accolades, especially considering Avenlane’s situation.” I spared Mrs. Melcourt a glance. “The house sits high on the Dover cliffs, and the sea wind whips across the garden. Many plants will never thrive in that sort of environment, so it was vital to select each one carefully. We also created wind breaks of walls and tree lines across the property, and none of them obscured the views of the sea from the house.”
Never mind the exacting nature of Mrs. Bartholomew herself. A stubborn woman who was unafraid to speak her mind, she knew nearly as much as I did about native British trees. We also argued fiercely at various points during the project, and by the end, we’d both received a stellar education in coastal flora, if only to prove the other wrong.
As though reading my thoughts, Lady Kinner said, “I’m certain that Mrs. Bartholomew proved to be a spirited client.”
“One might say that,” I said.
“Laura has been that way since we were girls,” said Lady Kinner with affection. “Did you back down?”
“Not when I was right. Our most strenuous fight was over a row of great hedges of ‘Common Lavender.’ I told her that they would make no sense in a coastal garden, but she insisted, so we planted one to see how the lavender fared. It died after five weeks.”
“What did she do?” Lady Kinner asked.
“She asked if I was happy I had proven my point. I told her yes, and she threw up her hands and said, ‘The problem, Miss Smith, is that you and I are far too alike, and that means I can’t hardly dislike you.’ ”
All through this exchange, Mrs. Melcourt watched us, her head cocked to one side as though weighing how far up the social ladder this easy conversation with Lady Kinner should put me.
Now the lady inserted herself, saying, “Lady Kinner, it is such a shame that your niece was not able to come. It would have been a delight to have such an English rose at our little dance tonight.”
“Theresa was very sad to miss the occasion, but she does not return from Boston for another three weeks. She has been spending time with her maternal aunt,” Lady Kinner told me.
“Matthew will miss her. I know that he enjoyed her company greatly when they met last autumn,” said Mrs. Melcourt.
Whatever Lady Kinner thought of that, I was never to know, for Mrs. Melcourt received the signal that dinner was ready to be served, so she took the hand of the highest-ranking gentleman—Lady Kinner’s husband, Sir Terrance Kinner—and led the way to dinner.
All around me, gentlemen paired off with the ladies Mrs. Melcourt had no doubt discreetly informed them they would be escorting into dinner. I stood there, smoothing my skirts and feeling more than a little lost, when Matthew appeared at my side.
“Miss Smith, I believe I have the honor of taking you in,” he said, elbow outstretched to me.
I bit my lip and slipped my hand into the crook of his arm. “That is very kind of you, Mr. Goddard. Thank you.”
As we approached the dining room, I ventured, “I would have thought that, as the brother of our hostess, you would have been paired with a woman of greater repute. Perhaps Lady Kinner’s niece?”
He huffed a laugh. “Helen has been pushing Miss Theresa Orleon, a woman fifteen years my junior and with no more interest in me than I in her, for a full year now.”
“Is she not a good match?”
His hand covered mine just before we passed through the doors and into the view of all of the guests. “She is an excellent match, but I do not have the same ambitions as my sister.”
“Surely you’ve thought of marriage. It must be expected of you,” I said.
He slanted a look my way. “Surely you’ve thought of marriage. It would be expected of you.”
My mouth stayed firmly, resolutely shut.
He squeezed my hand. “I’m glad that Miss Orleon is not in attendance tonight. I would rather walk you in to dinner.”
I rolled this over in my mind as he guided me around the table to an empty chair and pulled it out. I looked up to thank him for his attention when I saw him grasp the carved wooden frame of the chair next to me. From the top of the table, Mrs. Melcourt frowned.
“Your sister seems displeased,” I said as I watched him sit.
He leaned in. “Earlier tonight, I persuaded one of the footmen to switch the place cards. I’m meant to be between the vicar’s wife and Mrs. Filsom.”
“Mr. Goddard,” I said in mock horror but could hardly keep the laugh from my lips.
“I promise you, Miss Smith, there is no one I would rather sit next to at the dinner than you.”
I want to write more, I do, but I think I shall need a day to think on everything that happened after dinner and see just how brave I am. For now I will put down my pen and say good night. Good morning. Good day.
SATURDAY, 18 MAY 1907
Highbury House
Clear skies
I have been studiously avoiding my diary, but I know that I must write down what happened after Mrs. Melcourt’s dinner if only so that one day I might look back at it and remember it was not a figment of my imagination.
After the final course was cleared and the ladies retired to the drawing room to allow the gentlemen time with their port, the guests who had been invited just for the dancing began to arrive. I am not a particularly distinguished dancer, so balls hold little interest to me. I would stay for an hour and then slip away, I promised myself as I was swept up in the crowd headed for the ballroom.
Yet even I couldn’t deny that when couples began to step into the swirling circle of the waltz, there was an undeniable romance in the air. From the safety of the dance floor’s edge, my foot tapped along to the music pouring from the violin. The tinkle of laughter danced over the top of the hubbub, and everyone seemed to sparkle under the electrified lights of the chandelier. Mrs. Melcourt had pulled off a triumph of a country ball.
Four dances in, I spotted the lady herself at the head of the room. Her husband stood next to her and, a few feet off, dancing with his arm around a woman in green, was Matthew. As soon as the music started, he had been waylaid by his sister and had spent the past twenty minutes dutifully taking out to the floor every young lady placed
in front of him.
I closed my eyes, wondering whether this was a sign that I should melt away, collect my shawl, and walk back to the gardener’s cottage. I had tasks to complete in the morning. (It hardly seems possible to complete all of it by the end of the year.)
I turned on my slippered heel and made for one of the open doors leading from the ballroom to the veranda. I would retrieve my shawl the next morning when the residents of the house were still fast asleep. The music had stopped, and ladies and gentlemen were shuffling between partners.
I was out the door when a man’s voice stopped me.
“You’re not going, are you?”
I looked over my shoulder, squinting at the figure silhouetted against the light of the party. “Mr. Goddard?”
He stepped down from the threshold. “I liked it better when I was Matthew.”
I glanced around, fearful that someone might have heard. Luckily, we were quite alone, yet there were so many reasons we shouldn’t be. We were standing in the home of my employers. Moreover, I was a woman working and living alone. Only my status as a gentleman’s daughter and my irreproachable reputation allowed me that privilege.
And yet…
“You aren’t for bed yet,” he said.
“I cannot imagine that dancing with me holds much appeal for the gentlemen inside,” I said.
“I should like to dance with you.” He traced a finger down my bare arm and over my wrist. “Ever since supper I’ve been trying to make my way back to you. My sister seemed determined to occupy me.”
“I wonder why,” I said, brow lifted.
He held out his hand. “Come.”
I hesitated only a moment before allowing him to pull me out of the view of the ballroom’s tall windows, past the lime walk, and into the tea garden.
The gate closed behind us with a soft metallic click, but still he led me deeper into the garden.
“Matthew…”
“Just a little further,” he said.
We stopped in the lovers’ garden. I watched him turn a full circle, searching in the silvery light from the half-moon for something.
“What are you looking for?” I asked.
“Anyone else.” A smile tipped the edge of his lips. “It appears we’re alone.”
He slipped his hand up my arm to my shoulder and over my neck. He cupped my cheek tenderly. Then he kissed me, fully and deep. And I kissed him back.
Kissing him feels like turning my face up to the spring sun and luxuriating in the warmth spreading over my skin after months of winter. Kind and inquisitive and passionate—they feel fundamentally him. A revelation each time.
When at last he pulled back, I leaned against his chest, and his arms wrapped around me. I knew I should step away. If I had done that, I might have been able to wake up the next morning and go back to my life as it was before. I might have pretended that I am passionate only about my gardens. Yet I knew what it was to be touched—longed for—and I ached for this long-neglected part of me.
This time I was the one who kissed him. I slid my hands into his hair. I breathed in the smell of him. I angled myself into the warmth of his body.
A laugh from somewhere nearby broke the spell, and both of us stumbled back a step.
The laugh came again, further off than we realized. Both of us breathed a sigh of relief.
He lowered his forehead to rest against mine, and he took my hand again, his thumb playing circles along the back of it.
“Venetia.” He said my name like a prayer.
It was that reverence that made me whisper, “Come to my cottage.”
“Someone might see us together.”
“Wait here for ten minutes before following me. No one will be suspicious about you visiting the greenhouses.”
“In the dead of night?” he asked.
“It will only add to your reputation as an eccentric horticulturalist.”
He huffed a laugh and shoved a hand through his hair. “I will follow you after ten minutes.”
My heart was in my throat as I followed the winding path through the garden rooms and across the ramble. Once in my cottage, I went to my vanity and began unwinding my hair from the elaborate knot the maid had dressed it in earlier that evening. I dropped pin after pin into a little china dish, each ping punctuating my wait.
A soft knock sounded at the door—exactly ten minutes after I left him. When I reached the front room, he was already inside, his jacket off and his necktie hung in two long strips against his shirt.
Without a word, I offered him my back. Chin resting on my shoulder, I watched him undo each and every button of my dress with a steady, patient hand.
• BETH •
21 May 1944
Dearest Beth,
I know it’s been too long since I’ve written to you last. It’s just that this war… it weighs so heavily on the mind.
The men in my unit don’t talk about these sorts of things, but I can tell. Just the other day, Parker came out of a fog he’d been in for weeks because he got a letter from his wife. He’s a proud father to a little girl he will not meet for weeks or months if he manages to survive this war at all.
I sometimes wonder if I was unfair asking you to be mine. The truth is, I’ve always wondered what would have happened if your aunt had lived closer to the farm. What if you hadn’t moved away when we were children or if I’d said the right things to you the few times we saw each other last year.
That is too many ifs for one letter. Just know that I look forward to your letters always.
With all my affection,
Colin
“Stop fussing your hem.” Ruth knocked Beth’s hand away from, once again, tugging at her borrowed dress.
“You look fine,” said Petunia with a laugh as they walked up the long crushed lime drive of Highbury House.
Six land girls had all come together to the dance, moving like a pack of excitable parrots in all their finery. Christine and Anne had ridden on a pair of old bicycles to Temple Fosse Farm to pick up Beth and Ruth. Petunia and a girl named Jemima, who was new to South Warwickshire and still growing the calluses on her hands, had joined as well.
Captain Hastings—Graeme he’d asked her to call him—had tried to insist on picking Beth up at Temple Fosse Farm.
“It’s the proper thing to do,” he’d said just the day before.
She’d laughed. “What’s proper during this war? Besides, it doesn’t make any sense for you to go all that way only to come right back to where you started. I’ll walk over with the other girls, and you can meet me there. I’ll feel like Cinderella entering the ball.”
He’d grudgingly agreed, and she was glad, for it had been fun getting ready together. Almost like having a mismatched band of sisters all rushing around her. Ruth had taught Christine how to pin up her curls at each temple, and Anne had tried a swatch of every single lipstick in the farmhouse before deciding on a coral. Beth wouldn’t have traded anything for the moment when they’d all cheered because Mrs. Penworthy’d convinced her husband to drive them to the big house in the horse and cart.
“I wonder if there will be soldiers,” said Anne in her breathy voice when the house came into view.
“Pilots. Many, many pilots,” said Ruth with the sort of determination that almost made Beth feel sorry for the men.
She smiled at her usually sullen roommate. It was hard not to be caught up in the excitement. The dance was a proper one, with decorations pulled from the house’s huge attics and a band from the local air base. Rumor had it that Mrs. Symonds had opened up the wine cellar, although Stella had told Beth she would believe it when she saw it.
And the best part of all was that a man she liked was waiting for her.
Maybe she should feel a bit more guilty. Just that morning, another letter from Colin had arrived in the post. She’d read it and tucked it into the box by her bedside to deal with later.
She couldn’t continue this way. She’d said yes to being his girl because
she hadn’t known how to say no, but their correspondence had never sat comfortably with her. Now that her world had grown, she was another person from that girl he’d telephoned before shipping out. Now his letters were not enough.
Petunia squeezed her hand as they approached Highbury House’s front door. “Are you excited to see your captain?”
“I am,” she said, brightness glowing past her guilt.
“Then let’s go find him.”
The entryway was already heaving with men and women in a mix of uniforms and civilian clothes. The dance would start at six o’clock to take advantage of the lengthening late-spring days and to avoid violating the blackout. No one here cared that six would have been unthinkably early in peacetime. They would all squeeze as much joy out of the night as they could.
Beth floated through the brightly lit entryway toward the French doors thrown open to the veranda and the sound of “I’ll Be Seeing You.” Sister Wharton collected their tickets, and they handed off their coats to Dorothy, a maid who looked desperate to be asked to dance.
Fighting her niggling fears, Beth’s eyes swept the crowded dance floor as she looked for Graeme. What if he’d fallen ill? Or perhaps he’d been discharged earlier than he thought, and he couldn’t get word to her. Or maybe he’d changed his mind about her.
“There you are.”
She spun on her heel with a smile of relief. There he stood, tall in his dress uniform, a spray of orchids in his right hand.
“You look beautiful,” he said, leaning down to kiss her on the cheek.
She pressed a hand to her chest, still not used to its flutter every time he drew that close. “Thank you.”
He held up the flowers. “For you.”
“They’re beautiful,” she said, smelling them. A pin secured the ribbon wrapping the stems: a corsage. The man had managed to find her a corsage in the middle of rural Warwickshire during a war.
“Thank you,” she murmured as she pinned the orchids to her navy dress.